Shades of Truth, FULL POST
by pro-prodigy
Summary: Watson, returning from the army with bad memories and no money to start a practice, becomes an escort of a fashion. He's very good at what he does, but never counted on Sherlock Holmes turning his life upside down and taking his heart in the process.SLASH
1. An Improvised Profession

_Title:__ Shades of Truth  
__Pairing:__ H/W and W/people he doesn't care about  
__Genre:__ AU, slash  
__Rating:__ pretty much NC-17 all the way through  
__Warnings: __It's all about (subtle-ish) prostitution, some non-con later on  
__Summary:__ Watson, disillusioned and returning from the army with bad memories and no money to start a practice, becomes an escort of a fashion. He's very good at what he does, but never counted on Sherlock Holmes turning his entire life upside down and taking his heart in the process.  
__A/N:__ Couldn't let this puppy lie. Cross-posted to Cox and Co. Used to be only on my lj, but who am i to deny the general ffnet public? Anyways, i had it partially posted on my Ready-made prodigy account, but here it is, now posted in full on my sister/twin __pro-prodigy __account .  
_

~*~

It had started innocuously enough. Finished with the night's activities I had begun to redress while my partner lay in a languid repose upon the bed. It was no small feat to locate all of my apparel in such dim lighting, though I had retained my shirt during our excursions. I had begun to knot my tie before the mirror when heavy, masculine arms encircled me and a mouth nuzzled gently against my ear, the smell of our sexual congress assaulting my nose.

"Do you need money for a cab?" he asked politely.

I don't know what compelled me to answer as I did. It could not have been monetary concern alone because at the time I was still newly arrived to England and therefore, still maintained a purse full of my newly granted wound pension. I would be remiss and foolish not to think it had in some part been the result of the events that occurred in Afghanistan but as those memories were hardly agreeable I would not have allowed them to cross my mind. Perhaps it was simply his tone or the nature of the gesture itself. In any case, as it happened, I answered, "Yes."

My blush then was only half faked and I gave him a kiss as both a thank you and goodbye.

As my profession—if it could be called that—grew more and more into my preferred trade, I discovered it was easiest to extract funds from my female partners. The poor creatures, so entrapped by the expectations of their gender and by the inescapably conventions of society it took almost no effort at all to have them pressing folded notes into my hands, their hair about their face like wild halos, cheeks at the height of colour, and eyes bright with a fevered spirit they daren't ever express to the public eye.

"Here," they would gasp past the generous heaves of their bosomed breasts, "you've more than earned it."

With men it was somewhat difficult or to be fair, more challenging. If I had wanted to be tossed money for services rendered like a common rent boy, it would have been a simple enough task; however that was certainly not an experience I could stomach nor the sort of business I intended to conduct. My fees had to be _given_ to me, freely and without the stipulating notion of a payment. It better suited my partners' sensibilities and it allowed me to maintain my rather iniquitous sense of pride and dignity. Those first few times, once it had become known what I did, I had made a point to actively seek out the more flamboyant of my ilk, however ill advised. A few nights spent with them and they were more than happy to outfit me in splendid suits and waistcoats, which were so essential to my trade. All I had to do was suggest that my attire was not suitable to attend the evening's opera or show and my lovers would supplement my wardrobe with silk ties and smartly cut suits which would be then taken out at a later date to lure another.

One would think that by my description I should have been a wealthy man, but it was not so. I had been living in hotels, which was convenient but very trying on my sporadic income. The reality of the situation was that although my partners admired the scars on my tanned and thin body, they were the result of massive wounds and illness. I was sometimes victim to relapses and more often than not my leg and shoulder needed time to recover from my nocturnal exertions. Why I did it was because for complex and not so complex reasons, I enjoyed it. Also, the other reality was that even if I hadn't been confined to convalescence, I had not the sufficient funds to purchase my own practice. Thus, I plied my trade as well as I was able. I am very good at what I do. I do not say this with the traditional pride that men often exhibit when boasting on the subject, but with a cool confidence in that when I set my mind to the task, it is rare indeed that I am not successful in my endeavors.

Predictably, one of the only times I was unsuccessful coincided fatefully with my first meeting with the enigmatic and mercurial whirlwind that I would later come to know as Mister Sherlock Holmes. At the time of course, for the reason I previously stated, I only saw him as a terrible nuisance.

I had been attending a gala or ball—something to that effect. Due to what occurred shortly after leaving the polite conversations and airy dance floor, I seem to recall very little of the actual occasion other than the fact I had been invited by a few of the ladies who had known me in order to attend to their friend, Bethany Andrews, who was a sweet young thing with a crown of strawberry blond curls. She was naïve, but eager. I vaguely remember we had barely shared a few drinks and two dances before we had ensconced ourselves into a most obligingly dark and empty room, which the house was happily abundant with.

She was a virgin so when I delved beneath her skirts it was only to apply my mouth to her, which she enjoyed thoroughly. The extra stimulation from my moustache set her mewling like a kitten in heat. She was considerably more relaxed after that and moved to sit astride me as we resituated ourselves on an accommodating settee. I had voiced some discomfort at her sitting on my injured thigh so, very obligingly, she had moved up instead until she was more or less seated atop the ardent bulge in my trousers while she began peeling away my waistcoat and undoing my shirt buttons, lathering my newly exposed collarbone with her smoothly painted lips. When she pushed away my shirt from my shoulder her eyes widened and she ghosted her fingers along the starburst of pale, newly formed scar tissue.

"What happened?" she whispered.

"I was out of bullets and a Ghazi found me tending to a fellow soldier. His carotid artery had been nicked and my fingers were the only things keeping him from bleeding out. The Ghazi demanded I stand aside, probably to kill the private and take me prisoner. I refused. He shoved a knife through my shoulder and took my sword to behead the private, but I managed to wrench the knife from my shoulder and slit his wretched throat. The private died anyways."

My shoulder looked nothing like what a knife would have caused, but I knew by the way Miss Andrew's eyebrows sloped and the set of her mouth that my story, like many others I presented to my lovers, had fulfilled its purpose in alighting a keen fascination in her, which for some small space of time in this infinite universe, endeared myself to her.

"Oh, Nicolas. My God." She placed her forehead against mine and drew me into a long, drawn out kiss. When she finished I could feel the butterfly light brush of her lips against mine as she spoke. "I can make it better."

I wanted to smile at that. Doubtless she would have felt it so instead I met her eyes, hoping to God she would mistake my deprecating humour for haunting emotion. "Can you?"

"I'll try my best," she whispered, grounding down on my hips for emphasis and earning from me a hardy groan of appreciation when suddenly the door to our quiet room burst open.

Miss Andrews gave a startled yelp and dived to the side to take cover behind the carved back of the settee. For my part, I closed my eyes and counted to ten. There could only be two outcomes after all. Either the person who had caused the intrusion would leave or I was soon to be the subject of a rather justifiable thrashing. Thus it had been rather distressing to see that the intruder carried a gun, however much to my relief, it was not trained on me but the door I had assumed led to a spare bedroom.

"Aha!" he exclaimed. "I am here early then. I had thought that picking the door lock would have offset my meticulous timing."

He said it with such self absorbed, manic intensity that I am sure he would have said it had we been there or not. Bethany tried to say something and any other time I might have been gentler, but I might have well have been back on the burning desert sands by the way I immediately sought to silence her with my hand and adjusted my stance to shield her, watching the door warily.

It was mere seconds before that door too had burst open to reveal a man with a bowler hat and suspiciously wide brim that almost disguised the thin sliver of a black mask over his eyes. The first man raised his gun and opened his mouth to say something but had not counted on the second man to rush at him despite the danger. They both went down and I quickly pushed Miss Andrews towards the desk for cover as I rushed forward and kicked the gun away from their grappling hands where an accidental shot could play Russian roulette with all our lives. To add to this incoherent drama, a police man entered from the same room as the masked man and blundered towards the two men, whereupon the villain—as I had assumed for at that time I could not equate a mask with anything else, but of course now that I have donned one myself I know better—was able to grab hold of the poker from the nearby fireplace and swung it at the bobby who received it quite heartily in the cranial region and went down like a log. I was forced to catch him before he could damage his head any further. The villain then drove an elbow hard into the first man's sternum, quelling his struggle and allowing him to flee back the way he came. I had leapt to intercept him, but found myself instead on the receiving end of my own actions as the original trespasser tackled me about the waist, flinging me to the ground.

There had been a second where I had thought, 'This man would have made a good rugby player' when suddenly all my thoughts was on the man currently pressed against me from ankles to chest and everywhere in between. I briefly caught sight of an aquiline nose and the glint of silver in his grey eyes as he watched his assailant escape.

"We must let him go. Where he runs to holds the answers to this mystery," he said, his eyes flicking from the door to peer down at me.

Inexplicably, my face flushed as the gaze that belonged to the body that lay draped atop me met my own. When it comes to matters of the bedroom there is very little that embarrasses me. I have been fully nude before those who were practically strangers without so much as a hint of colour to betray me unless I had wished it. In fact, it had ceased to be even so much as a passing thought. However, _this_ was most assuredly not _that_. This was something innocent without any hint of lurid connotation at all, except that there was.

He seemed either not to notice or to particularly care for the moment the sound of footsteps changed from the sharp stomp of wood flooring to the softened thump of grass.

"I must pursue him, good day doctor!" he called as he raced away into the night.

"My word, who was that man?" Miss Andrews questioned tremulously from behind her still semi-crouched position behind the desk. By the way her hands were clutching it with bone white intensity I doubted whether I could coax her from it.

I sighed. I had not the faintest idea. All I knew was that whoever he was, because of him, judging by Miss Andrews' trembling body, it was rather unlikely that I would be paid tonight.


	2. Life at Baker Street

It was certainly easy to explain away my state of dishabille to a man who had a serious concussion and to the group that had gathered to investigate the commotion as I was a doctor treating a man who was bleeding a considerable amount and I had not wanted to sully my evening wear. Ms. Andrews obligingly supplemented my story by babbling incoherently in a fit of nerves whenever she was questioned. Suffice to say, I was quite spoiled in my attitude toward the fairer sex and stayed 'round the gentleman's clubs in the weeks preceding the strange incident.

I had an enjoyable night with a gentleman some few years older than me, whose sedate nature put me at ease after such an excitable and spectacular failure. He owned a private box at Royal Albert's Hall and treated me to a performance of Vienna's leading brass quartet before we amused ourselves by stripping before each other with agonizing slowness in the privacy of his flat in Westminster. To think that there are those of my sex who rail continuingly against the various trappings of fine English evening wear. I admit there is little else than can hold my full attention or a thing so erotic as watching it be removed piece by piece.

He paid me a generous sum, which was then promptly used to pay for my long overdue hotel bill, though I still had enough left over that I felt no need to linger further amongst the clubs and therefore treated myself to some thoughtless gambling at the Criterion Bar when someone tapped on my shoulder, and turning around I recognized the young Stamford who had been a dresser under me at Bart's. The initial recognition was somewhat one-sided however. In Stamford's defense I was very much changed from my time at the university. The sight of a familiar face did much to undo me as it reminded me just how lonely I was in the great wilderness of London. The metropolis did much in the way of partners, but very little for friends and though he had never been a particular crony of mine, I leapt at a chance to spend time with someone who knew me.

Comprehension slowly dawned on his face. "I worked as your surgeon's assistant while in Bart's. Your name was—"

"James," I intervened. I was not wholly without sense and if I were to pursue relations with Stamford beyond a dinner invitation it was better to continue to hide my identity. The choice in names was close enough to my own for him to accept it without question. That we would pursue relations was of course in question, but I was hardly wrong in such matters.

We proposed to meet later at the Holborn Restaurant. I arrived dressed in some of my most appealing finery. Stamford was stunned and even purchased a rose in which to place in my buttonhole. We reminisced for some time over the fine food and well chosen wine before moving back up to the present.

"Whatever have you been doing with yourself, James?" he asked in undisguised wonder. "You are as thin as a lath and brown as a nut."

"Is it disagreeable to you?" I asked with some softness, but clear suggestion.

"Not at all," Stamford replied, a wolfish smile adorning his features.

As I said, I am hardly ever wrong or unsuccessful in my endeavors.

We shared a few passing kisses in the carriage before Stamford pulled back to hiss a curse when he remembered he had forgotten his keys along with a package he had dropped off in the chemical laboratory at the hospital. We had meant to return to my hotel, but Stamford was reluctant to leave them there as students and gentleman went in and out of the place at all hours of the day and night.

"Why, the other day I came upon Holmes beating corpses in the dissecting rooms with a stick," he related breathlessly as we made our way to the laboratory. The corridor was dark and empty, allowing for Stamford to press me against a nearby wall and kiss me in a hard and demanding fashion, probably in retaliation for the terminated actions I had daringly conducted while still in the carriage.

When I managed a breath, my curiosity got the better of me and I asked, "Really? Why in the blazes was he beating corpses?"

"I think to verify how far bruises may be produced after death."

"He is a medical student, I suppose," I said as I sucked lightly above his collar.

"No," he squirmed a little against my ministrations as he opened the laboratory door, "I don't know what he intends to go in for. In fact—Holmes!"

In fact, this very same Holmes was apparently occupied with some experiment in the lab we had just walked into, our faces decidedly flushed and clothes just a hint askew. Not to mention Stamford was caught in an expression that clearly indicated his crime. Mr. Holmes, to my surprise, was the same gentleman I had encountered on that fateful night several days ago. I had almost forgotten it, except that the man himself was hard to forget with his pale features mounted upon a tall and lean physique. He was bent over a distant table in deep concentration over his work, though he did spare a moment to glance up as we entered the room.

Stamford spluttered a little and nearly began wringing his hands before he forcibly stopped himself. "I hum, that is to say—Dr. James Lawson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he rasped shakily, obviously nervous.

Internally I panicked as well, which was quite justifiable seeing as how last I saw him, Mr. Holmes was working with the police. However, I was sure there was some hope that I could at least temper the situation. Mr. Holmes couldn't have failed to notice that I was with a woman in my last compromising position he had intruded upon and that led me credibility and reason for doubt on Holmes' part on tonight's proceedings. Also, like last time he seemed to be amidst such intense self-absorption for what he was doing that I was confident that I could subtly work it to my advantage.

"How are you?" he said distractedly, though I could tell somehow that he had recognized me.

I strode towards his table with all the grace I could muster and arranged my features into that of more-than-polite interest. "What is it that you are working on?"

"I am on the edge of a chemical break through that shall henceforth put to death the old guaiacum test. I have found a re-agent which is precipitated by hemoglobin and by nothing else." My assessment proved to be correct. Had he discovered a gold mine, greater delight could not have shone upon his features. "No doubt you see the significance of this discovery of mine?"

"It is interesting, chemically, no doubt," I answered, "but practically…"

It probably would have been wiser if I had simply met this statement with wholehearted agreement, but curiosity and the unaccountable strangeness and magnetism of this man made me act otherwise.

"Why, man, it is the most practical medico-legal discover for years. Don't you see that it gives us an infallible test for blood stains? Come over here now!"

With a strength for which I should hardly have given him credit, he seized me by the coat-sleeve and drew me closer towards him and the chemical table, affording me a clear view of what he was doing. He prepared some of his own blood into a chemical pipette full of water, his hand going towards a small collection of white crystals that I immediately recognized.

"You are using sodium hydroxide to denature the hemoglobin," I said, this time with genuine interest.

He gave me a look that communicated a distinct approval in my commentary. "Yes indeed, Doctor, and when precipitated with saturated ammonium sulfate…" he trailed off as he let his actions speak for himself and in an instant the contents of the vessel assumed a dull mahogany colour, and a brownish dust was precipitated to the bottom of the glass.

"You see?" he said, his intense gaze finally settling on me, "Had this test been invented earlier, there would be hundreds of men now walking the earth who would long ago have paid the penalty of their crimes."

"Indeed!" I murmured.

"Before we could not have known whether a brownish stain was blood, rust, or fruit stains and with no reliable test the question could not be answered by any expert. Now we have the Sherlock Holmes test, and there will no longer be any difficulty."

His astoundingly massive ego deflated some of my wonderment and so it was Stamford who spoke next.

"You should be congratulated!" Stamford said with horribly contrived enthusiasm. "It is with little wonder that you are working so late at night. You see, I—that is to say, Dr. Lawson and I had not expected anyone to be here when I came to find my keys. We were only going to share a few drinks, but I worried over my keys, you know and well, we were merely surprised to see you…here, tonight at the lab. It was a terrible surprise you see, especially with our clothes all disheveled from our walk here. We had dinner close by at the-the restaurant around the corner, you see."

And like that Stamford destroyed my perfectly constructed veil of placid compliance to British law.

The corners of Holmes' lips twitched briefly. He was not fooled for a second. Indeed, no one with _any_ modicum of sense would have been. His brow quirked upward as he regarded me in a ridiculous performance of innocent inquiry. "Is that so, Doctor?"

My cheeks burned as I ground out a defiant, "Yes."

"Very well, then. I shall bother you two no more." He shook my hand cordially and addressed Stamford once again in a bored and distracted manner. "You will find your keys on the back countertop beside your package, which by the way, although remains unopened, by the volume and lopsided weight distribution, I perceive that one of the two glass beakers you had ordered is now broken. Good night to you both."

When we were later ensconced back in a cab I could not help but ask Stamford how Holmes had known the contents of Stamford's package.

Stamford threw up his hands in a futile gesture and said simply, "He is Sherlock Holmes."

Stamford and I departed on our separate ways that night. Again, this man, this Sherlock Holmes, had succeeded in terminating my relations with another perfectly desirable partner. By this time, his powers seemed to be positively occult.

In the following days I found myself thinking about him almost constantly. I knocked into a reedy, old bookseller with liberally plastered hands and I immediately thought of the ones possessed by Holmes, dexterous and enchanting as they deftly handled the delicate chemical instruments. I nearly thought myself going mad as I caught sight of aquiline noses and grey eyes in almost every man I encountered at the clubs in the following nights.

My peculiar state of mind seemed to be reflecting on my work because many of the partners I had tried to engage with only seemed to stay long enough to ask me a few odd questions or observe me with my drinks before moving away to presumably pursue a less distracted and obsessed lover. It seemed that the mere thought of Sherlock Holmes was enough to ruin my conjugal advances.

Thus, it was with great surprise when the man himself turned up at one of my more exclusive clubs and began to make his way in an unhurried manner to where I sat with a gentleman of high standing whom I thought would make an excellent partner judging by his flaxen hair and robust shoulders that tapered down into a attractively narrow waist. My eye twitched as if my brain expected my vision to clear at any second, but he still continued toward me in a very direct path, only diverging to avoid a chair or low table.

My partner—Robert or Rowan…or Jacob, whoever—paused in his narrative as Holmes drew up to our table.

"I apologize dear sir, but I have some_ private_," at the word he placed a hand somewhat suggestively atop my shoulder, "business with this gentleman and I would be very grateful if you quietly vacated our presence as what we discuss weighs with great importance." He said it with a correctly polite and formal tone, though it could not honestly disguise the blatant rudeness of the remark.

I stood up along with my partner. "I'm truly very sorry," I told him, hoping my sincerity would cover for that fact that I had not made a move to rebuke Holmes in any way.

He cupped my cheek with his gloved hand, the soft leather gently caressing my face. "No, I will leave voluntarily." He drew me into a slow and deliciously exquisite kiss, his tongue darting luxuriously into my mouth, leaving me blushing at both his skill and our audience. He smiled lazily when he had finished. "It is fine. I am still interested, perhaps another time. Good night."

I sat back down, a hint of colour probably still in my cheeks. Mr. Holmes seemed to be trying his hardest not to scowl. The low level buzz of panic began to settle somewhere deep in my breast. I had not the faintest clue as to what he was doing here, but I could not imagine that it was for anything good.

Mr. Holmes cleared his throat. "As I said before, I have some business to discuss with you."

What colour that remained in my face drained instantly when he said that. Blackmail. There was no other explanation. I went through the sums in my head. I was relatively unproductive this week, if he asked beyond two or three hundred pounds, I would be left destitute.

My fear must have been quite evident in my expression for Holmes was quick to assuage me.

"No, I do not intend to extort money from you," he assured, seriously.

"Then what do you want of me?" I demanded, not yet willing to believe him.

"As I stated twice before, I wish to discuss business."

"You wish to…incur my services?" I asked hesitantly.

"Precisely, yes."

I dropped my gaze to the hands that lay in my lap and I fidgeted a moment with my rather plain but well polished silver cufflinks. So, he wished to blackmail me in that manner. Bile rose in my throat. Before now, I would have been more than willing to have sex with Holmes, he is an attractive man after all, but I balked at the idea of lying with him out of obligation to ensure my continuing freedom. However, if I did do this, I could be relatively safe knowing he could not incriminate me without risking incriminating himself. I swallowed. It could just be this once. My hands trembled. It could not be so bad. Without warning, anger suddenly suffused through me at my meek and disgustingly familiar thoughts. I would not do this. I would rather die.

Holmes made a frustrated sound. Once again, he must have read my thoughts plainly on my face. "I had not meant to extort you in that way either. God man, I am no such monster. I do not know whether to be insulted that you have thought me to be such a brute when I have done nothing to warrant such judgment or to congratulate you on your very correct perception on the deplorable state of the human race. In any case, perhaps you will accept truth in exchange for trust. Will you hear me out?"

I nodded, not daring to do anything else.

Holmes produced a pair of cigarettes with a sudden flick of his wrist. He held one out in silent offering while he lit his own. I took it and stored it in my breast pocket. He took a long drag and held it delicately between his fingers as he addressed me.

"You ply your unique service to both male and female partners with no discernable preference. You are most known for your unheard of practice of not demanding your fees up front and for the most part act as an affectionate lover, getting to know your clients before ravaging them so thoroughly they gift you with your payments, though never coupling with them beyond that first night. You go by various aliases; Nicolas, James Lawson, and Noah being just a few. Your identity is not the only thing you keep secret. The nature of your injuries has been charmingly retold over a dozen times, though is never the same tale twice when it's obvious you received them in a recent campaign in Afghanistan and despite your carriage, has more or less crippled you for life. Right leg, thigh," he indicated almost the exact spot where the bullet resided inside my vastus lateralis muscle, "and your left arm. Shattered scapula from a soft nosed bullet, I'd wager."

Obviously, he had said. A truth that none of my partners, whom had seen me bare, seen the muscles and sinews of my body work in tandem with their own had been able to guess as much or see through the stories I fed them. The shock of it was nearly a physical presence in my system. And there was more.

"Apart from that, you occasionally indulge on yellow-backed adventure novels, strong tobacco, long walks in good weather despite your damaged leg, and have met with seven potential partners in the last four days. And your real name," he paused in order to fasten his gaze upon my face, "is Dr. John Watson."

He knew my name, my true name. My mind whirled around for the last time I had heard it. Not since I had withdrawn my pension funds earlier this month and not at all with the kind of intimacy he said it with. He _knew_ me. _How was it possible?_ I thought dazedly, but at the same time I knew it was not impossible either.

"That first time I met you. You knew I was a doctor."

He nodded, "Yes, I had observed you that night. You can tell a man's profession by the things he finds interesting in others. Bankers are interested in finance, architects, in a person's homes, you," he said with emphasis, "were concerned about one of your female acquaintance's temperature and the slightly puffy infection she had acquired in her ear where her earring was mounted."

I frowned. "I didn't notice that."

"No doubt you would have if Ms. Andrews had not been forced into your attention. My initial inference was then bolstered by the nature of the story you told to the young lady regarding your injuries and then was confirmed when I learned later that night that the unfortunate policeman who had tried aiding me in my capturing that criminal Fronds Fortesquieu was treated by a physician who had happened to be present during the incurring commotion."

"Did you catch him, Fortesquieu, the man in the mask?" I asked suddenly.

Holmes looked visibly surprised at my inquiry. "Yes, it was a success, thanks, in no small part, to yourself."

"I was happy to be of assistance," I replied weakly.

"Do you believe me now, Doctor?"

I hesitated. "Tell me how you came about this information. Only then will you have my trust."

He sighed, annoyed, waving aside my request with an impatient sweep of his hand. "My methods are trifles and would take too long to explain."

"I am not a fool to be used," I snapped. "If you cannot prove that it isn't more of a danger to enter into such a business agreement, then I shall walk away and forget it in an instant."

"Fine," he ground out between a tightly locked jaw. "I am not inconsiderably skilled in the art of logic and deduction. Most of my observations on your wounds and your profession I was able to glean from my scant meetings with you at that wretched ball and in the lab. However, the majority of your habits and the information on your affairs were taken by observing you this past week as well as interviewing some of your previous partners."

"You were following me?" I spluttered indignantly.

"Yes, which is, incidentally, how I discovered your true name. While watching you at the Jack's Club, I noticed that you sometimes would make a minute type of indicatory move whenever the name John was uttered although you were using your pseudonym of Nicolas at the time. That, coupled with the fact that you are registered as Andrew Watson at your hotel led me to the near definite conclusion of your given name."

A horrible headache was beginning to form about my temples. "And my partners?"

"Easy enough to find, but to your credit all of the ones I spoke with were mindfully discreet on your behalf. Obviously, as closely as I had you observed it was no great difficulty discerning the number of men you had been scouting as potential lovers. I had also posed as three of them."

"What?!" I exclaimed.

"Oh yes, I have a gift for disguises as well as science."

Suddenly my obsession with grey eyes was beginning to make a lot more sense.

"Just how—I can't believe…" I stumbled over the many thoughts that warred within my mind. "Why?" I questioned incredulously.

He shrugged with perfect nonchalance. "You are an enigma to me, a puzzle which I yearn to solve. I own that you also possess very handsome features and the thought of having sex with you was positively electrifying." His eyes twinkled mischievously. "It still is, in fact."

I blushed at his blatant voicing of a thought that had already crossed my mind. He seemed pleased and amused at my reaction.

"Very well, what do you propose?"

"Your funds cannot support your living in hotels indefinitely and I assume your convalescence spans another couple of months at least so there is no way you can correct it with a new source of income. I have been looking into some rooms at Baker Street that are well within your range if we were to split the monthly cost."

"And then what?" I interrupted, trying to make sense of the incongruously innocent business proposition. "Once in a while instead of paying my half the rent I could supplement it with sexual favors?"

Holmes shrugged. "I will pay your normal fees whenever we engage in those types of activities and as you will most likely be using that money to pay rent with, it generally amounts to the same thing. If you must, you can think of it as creating an investment for future practice. From what I observed however, I am confident we can be amiable housemates. Think of the advantages, Watson." I shivered at the sound of him using my real name. "Though you have chosen your partners well in the past for their loyalty and decency, there will come a time when either you choose one that is not so trustworthy or the sheer amount of them will make you vulnerable to being caught. With me, at least we can both practice our criminal passions with some iota of safety from two years of hard labor at Reading Gaol.

"Such a thing would stipulate rules of course. For instance, I would demand that you take no other lover—especially not with the gentleman who held your attention earlier—while with me in order to preserve my privacy as I do tend to work frequently with the police. I would also demand that while sharing a flat together you do so under your real name, not as Andrew or Lawson. These rules would have to be followed to the letter, which could be a harsh pronouncement, but I very much doubt they are the strangest requests you have received in the course of your work."

I laughed aloud at his statement. "No, indeed." I wiped the moisture that had gathered at the corner of my eyes. "It's quite reasonable in fact. Though I still hesitate to accept."

Holmes himself looked greatly surprised that I had found it to be funny, though he recovered quickly enough and continued on. "In addition to the convenience, I can offer you something else. In exchange for the loss of the thrill in seeking intimate partnership with the constant danger of social and legal ramifications, I will allow you to take part in my budding business where excitement and danger will be dealt in spades. I will not explain it to you now, but I am confident that I can use your many unique talents and skills."

My eyes narrowed suspiciously at his choice of words.

Holmes again let out a breath of frustration. "Again Doctor, you misconstrue my meaning. I did not say such a statement in the spirit of hiding my true meaning behind the use of euphemisms. In the short time I have observed you, you have shown both resourcefulness and an ample amount of sense, being able to act quickly and wisely in a dangerous situation. You have also proven to be quite intelligent and a competent physician which will be an asset later on."

Somehow it did not wholly sound like praise, more like a statement of competence that others happened to simply lack.

Holmes stood and held out his hand. "What do you say, Watson?"

He knew me and not in a way that he merely gathered facts from stalking me in the course of several days. He had guessed the true reason behind my improvised profession. Since my time in Afghanistan and debilitating illness that followed, I had been listless and the only thing that could rouse me was the thrill that came with nights filled with impassioned embrace and short lived, but gratifying lust. Even with female partners, I flirted on the edge of danger of discovery by her parents or an angry fiancé that could possible ruin my rights to gentility. Holmes knew me in a way I don't think anyone had ever known me, had ever cared to know me. He offered me something insane, encased in perfect, logical sense. It was a burning flame inside a gas lamp.

"Are those all the reasons you wish me to stay with you?"

"Did I not already mention that I plan to ravage you as often as I can possibly manage?"

I don't know what I had expected as an answer, but his reply must have been enough because I found myself ignoring his outstretched hand and kissing him gently on the lips instead. It was chaste, but oddly satisfying, perhaps because we knew that it would not be that way for long. He smiled roguishly and handed me an envelope.

"I will see you tomorrow afternoon, Doctor."

As he left, I opened the envelope to reveal a key and a sturdy card. On the back it had the name of the landlady scrawled in a spidery hand. On the front was an address.

_221 Baker Street, Apartment B_

221B, I thought dazedly. The address to which I would begin my new life with Sherlock Holmes.

~*~

Two trunks, one full of my army things and another filled with books and medical texts, and a decently filled wardrobe was all I owned. It certainly made moving in very easy, though it tired me nonetheless. Holmes was not in. In fact, I did not see him until later that night. He looked exhausted and glad of it. I sensed the same exultant triumph he had displayed when he had made his discovery in the chemistry lab.

"Evening Holmes, how are you?"

He snorted as he flopped effortlessly upon the settee. "You need not bother with pretenses, dear fellow. I did not propose we take up digs together so that you may pose as my wife or a doting lover."

"If I am pretending," I said, trying not to sound too disagreeable, "then I am doing a very bad job of it by acting as myself. You said you made your offer because you thought I would make an ideal flat mate. I am in the habit of inquiring after the health and general state of whoever happens to be in my immediate sphere of influence. So I say again, how are you?"

"And if I were to ignore you every time you asked?"

"I will ask again in another hour, if not half hour. Remember Holmes, that as I am forbidden to pursue either of my two professions, you are the only thing that can break the monotony of my convalescence."

He flung an arrant hand over his eyes. "I have little patience for small talk and the other frivolous social niceties that have ceased to have any real meaning. Ask something else."

"Very well," I folded my paper and set it in my lap, "how are you feeling, Holmes?"

He cracked a smile before he rose and poured us each a glass of port from the sideboard. "I will have to get used to your pawky sense of humor, Watson."

"I sense the same for your rather masterful evasion tactics."

He drank silently from his glass, employing yet another method of evading my wholly pedestrian inquiry.

I sighed, searching for another route in which to entice an answer. "I trust that whatever you are working on is going well."

This did spark an interest in him, although his answer was still less than satisfactory. "Ha! That _is_ something that I would take time to consider, but I will leave off explaining until tomorrow. For now however, I forgot to mention a particular proclivity of mine." He drew out from a black case, a splendid and well cared for violin. "I hope you do not object."

"Only if the playing is done well," I replied warily.

He smiled. "Then you shan't object in any degree."

His ego really knew no bounds, but in this case, and in many others as I would soon discover, his arrogance was wholly justified. His playing was—I cannot even begin to describe it. There are words, yes, but they are either inadequate or do not fully appreciate the entire scope of it. It was magnificent, but I do not mean to imply that it was simply a delightful performance. It was beautiful, but not in the way that I sat there in passive enjoyment as the music washed over me. No, I felt it and I saw it. Holmes did not merely play music, he commanded it. It was utterly subservient to him as he willed it from whatever transient existence it originated from. It was divine.

In that moment, I realized I knew nothing about Mr. Holmes. I knew he had an interest in chemistry. I knew he sometimes worked with the police. I knew he was wildly intelligent and that I held a certain degree of lust for him, but as a man I knew nothing of him and I doubted whether I ever would due to his reticence and impartial manner. However, now I did see something and it was radiant and stunning.

I sat in rapt fascination, unable and unwilling to break the spell.

When he finished, he reverently placed his violin back inside his case and turned to me with a wry smile. "Tonight was Beethoven, but I feel I must warn you that it shall not be so every night. I only wished for you to know that I do indeed possess the talent even if I'm not always in the habit of employing it, as you will soon discover."

"Then, thank you for your gift," I murmured as I stood and floated in a trance towards him. I stepped in close, so that there was not an half an inch between us. I wanted this man, wanted to know some part of his radiant and stunning self as well as the part I didn't know, the part shrouded in secrecy and mystery. He was tall and my chin rested on his shoulder, my cheek pressed against his jaw and my mouth close to his ear. "Lock the door," I whispered.

"There is no need, it locks automatically when closed," he breathed. "Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, has a key and you shall have the other, but if I desire entry it will be with a lock pick, that way you will always know when it is I who enters."

I probably should have said something, remarked on the ingenuity of the thing or made a comment on how I would always listen for his return, but I could not in lieu of the fact that now that I knew there was no danger, I could finally kiss him as I had wanted to since he set down his bow. I pressed kisses in the fragrant niche between his neck and chin, my hands automatically reaching to undo his collar, ripping fervently at his neck tie. He responded by ripping my coat from my shoulders and flinging my vest aside almost in anger for it being there. It should have been beautiful and delicate as his music had been, but it was mad and wild and therefore had its own unique beauty.

That's at least how I would think of it later. At the time, all I knew was that horrible things would occur if I was unable to sate my desire with the man lapping hungrily at the junction between my neck and shoulder. I untucked his fastidiously neat shirt from his trousers and buttoned them with the skill and deftness of practicing such a move a thousand times before. Our lips met and I fought to keep them sealed as he shrugged out of his shirt. When his hands were free once more, he grabbed at the sides of my face to deepen our kiss still further, exploring every corner of my eager mouth. I moaned as brain celled died spectacular deaths from lack of oxygen, while other parts of me exploded with desire.

I broke the kiss as a sacrifice to know one key piece of information.

"Where?" I gasped, pushing away my own trousers to be replaced with his hands feeling me through my short clothes.

"As you have just—" he broke off and groaned as I brushed a thumb over his left nipple, "—arrived, I propose we christen your room with our—" he broke off again as I repeated to move on his right side.

"Fluids?" I proposed, smirking cheekily at the reaction I had garnered.

"Now really, I had thought I hired a gentleman, not a renter," Holmes chastised.

"Fortunately for you," I kissed him soundly on those witty and exquisite lips as we made a jagged progression towards the door that led to the steps to my attic room, "I'm a little of both."

"More than a little," he replied, his hand reaching below the waistband of my small clothes.

It was very good that I was experienced and Holmes naturally graceful because I fear if we had stumbled but once on those stairs we would have both faced the morning with livid bruises from having sex right there on those hard, wooden steps with nary a care. Thankfully we were blessed with our respective gifts and made it all the way to my bed to truly start. By that time I was stark naked while Holmes retained his trousers and shoes, though his trousers were sufficiently undone enough that I had a clear access to all that I wanted.

He laid back upon my bed—purposefully a double, rather than a single—while I straddled his waist where our cocks nestled together. I thrust a few times against him to take in his reaction. He moaned and pressed his hands deeper into my hips so that he could prolong and increase the contact. I rutted against him in a steady rhythm, enjoying the heady and highly sensitive friction.

"How long?" I asked between breaths.

"I could not be—ohh, bothered when I had left school."

Some time then, I thought, immediately eliminating two or three activities and chose one that should be both familiar and extremely satisfying to him. I slipped down the expanse of his lean and muscled form, nipping playfully at the flesh above his pectoral and abdominal muscles. I sheathed my teeth behind my lips and wasted no time in engulfed his cock with my mouth while my hand fondled at the base. He threw his head back, eyes tightly shut as he swallowed down a groan. His cock was already moist with both our fluids and I could tell he would not last very long, so I hollowed out my cheeks and alternated the pressure at which I sucked him while his prick pulsed heatedly against my gently swirling tongue. He gasped loudly and his hand came up behind my head. I stiffened my neck in anticipation of his hand pulling me down, but he merely stroked my hair with a control that the rest of his tense and eager body did not imply. I was touched by his consideration and dipped down on my own accord, relaxing my throat to accommodate the rest of his length, swallowing him whole. He bucked and exploded wildly with an errant cry, spilling his seed down my waiting throat. He shuddered as I swallowed it down, his hand clutching the hair at the nape of my neck as I licked lazily at his softening member.

He tugged on my hair and drew me back up beside him, his hand fondling at my sac. He was propped up on one elbow and watching my face intensely.

"I want to watch you," he said breathlessly.

He had been observing me all week and he still did not have enough.

I sighed heavily as he stroked up and down my shaft, twisting upward when he would reach the top and pulling with impatient fervor. I met his gaze the entire time, watching him grow more and more agitated at my continuing resilience. I was enjoying myself splendidly, but I was quite relaxed compared to my previous vigor. Growling deep in his throat, he turned me over onto my side, scissoring open my legs. I shivered as his saliva slicked fingers slid towards my entrance. At the same moment he thrust them up into my body, he began tonguing unexpectedly at the shell of my ear and I was completely undone, spending explosively into his hand.

He smirked down at me as he left the room.

What could he have been thinking? About what an obscenely indecent picture I must have made, lying naked upon rumpled sheets, his own private escort? I had no idea.

All I knew was when I descended into the sitting room that the next day, I only had enough time to notice that there was a small stack of notes on the dining table beside my teacup, before Holmes himself came bursting into the room—after the tale-tell scrapes against the lock—and was soon dragging me out of it, a note clutched in his hand and cheeks flushed in a way that could be compared similarly to how they were the night before.

"Come, Watson! Get your hat, the game is afoot!"

That was how I came to be involved in the Jefferson Hope case. It was a part of a business agreement I had made with Mr. Holmes and along with our shared nights, it was the most exhilarating time in my life.

I could not imagine that it could get any better and regretfully, I had not anticipated for it to end so badly either.


	3. Life with Sherlock Holmes

It was a rather fine life. Since the Jefferson Hope case and Holmes' subsequent discoveries of my singular talents of recall, as facilitated by any medical student determined to earn their license, of following his directions to the absolute letter without question, developed from my time in the army, and of being a convenient source of first aid, Holmes had begun including me on most, if not all, of what referred to as 'cases' in which he would investigate under the character of a private consulting detective, the only one in the world in fact. During cases there was an implied understanding that coupling would not be a typical occurrence.

I had been unsure at first. That the man had been strung out during the course of the investigation was obvious, filled to the brim with restless energy. However, it soon became quite clear to me that if Holmes required gratification, he would approach me himself. Thus, I allowed him his sleepless nights of pacing, smoking, and eventual revelation. It did not bother me. How could it, when the end was result was that some miscreant or criminal would be rightfully delivered into the hands of lady justice?

Besides, the immediate days following the completion of a successful investigation were definitely worth the momentary abstinence. All the pent up energies and the high of his success would merge together into intense and lively forays in the bedroom. Bedroom being more a turn of phrase than an accurate portrayal of location because then it would necessitate the inclusion of the water closet, sitting room, and once on the stairs. And always, of course, following one of these forays, wherever they may have been enacted, there would be the proper amount of coins or notes on the dining table or mantelpiece and while Holmes was away doing whatever a caseless consulting detective does during the day—something to do with listening in to the local taverns and cataloguing newspapers, as I've come to understand—I went off to bet on the races or purchase a new sea novel to fill up my semi-occupational days.

Not that I did not enjoy simply staying in our apartments in Baker Street and making a study of the man himself for Holmes was infinitely fascinating, whether he had his knees propped up to his chest in the basket chair, smoking or those thrice blessed times he was playing his violin. I had indeed, since that first time, experienced his wretched habit of unconscious bowing across the strings with no thought to how it sounded, but even in that he was fascinating to watch because his quicksilver eyes would suddenly grow distant as his mind became transported somewhere I could not possibly know and his face was both utterly open and closed at the same time.

However, all at once, it seemed that Holmes' previous enthusiasm in the sensual arts petered out a week following the case. I would leave him to retire to my room with not overly explicit suggestions, thinking he would eventually join me. I had even taken to carefully preparing myself at night, applying a decent amount of oil to my entrance for there was no doubt in my mind that Holmes, as a man possessing such a forceful personality, would be unwilling to fulfill anything but a dominant role in our future coupling. We had yet to…breach that particular juncture in our physical relations and it did not seem likely to happen when Holmes seemed determined not to pay me the slightest notice as he lounged about our sitting room brooding on who knows what complex conundrums of an otherwise unoccupied mind.

Sixteen days. Sixteen days without any sort of sexual gratification. Good Lord, I don't think I had ever gone that long since the start of university. I grew tired of waiting and as Holmes explicitly forbade me to seek out additional partners I was forced to resort to the personal means of easing my frustrations and revert back to those bygone boarding school practices.

Thus, one lazy afternoon, unable to stand it any longer, I unbuttoned my trousers and attended to myself. Although eager, I was determined to at least make the experience worthwhile as well as enjoyable, so I took it slow, touching myself only with my fingertips at first, messaging gently along the length of my shaft and petting my tip along the sensitive glans, all of which was becoming more and more receptive to the attention. I rested my head against the back of the settee and allowed myself a low groan of pleasure, which transformed into one of annoyance as I heard the familiar scrape of delicate tools against the door lock.

He had been in a bad mood when he left that morning, which bode ill for a satisfactory completion of my activities. Holmes seemed to be a man who enjoyed people to share in his misery and very well may absently order me to stop in an unconscious vie for equality. I decided to carry on anyways. Sixteen days was really a rotten amount of time to leave a man waiting. I had suffered, so he could stand to suffer a little also.

So by the time Holmes had gained entry, I had moved on to dragging my right forefinger, thumb, and second finger, up and down my length, very, very, deliciously slow. I had not moved my head from where it lolled along the couch back, so I simply let it roll in the general direction of where I could hear him approach as I spoke.

"Afternoon Holmes."

I was able to witness his start through my half-lidded gaze as he caught sight of what I was doing.

"Good God man, what if I had come in with someone?"

He seemed genuinely shocked to find me pleasuring myself in broad daylight in the middle of the sitting room and I will tell you right now, it is no easy feat to shock Sherlock Holmes, so I reveled in my brief victory, closing my eyes and smiling.

"You didn't," I replied, simply.

He could have argued that it was unlikely I could have known that for sure, but instead I felt the full weight of his stare, so I put a bit effort into turning an instinctual thrust of my hips into a sensual little roll and didn't allow my moan to leave the depth of my throat, making it sound more like a purr. I opened my eyes just in time to see the obvious bob of Holmes' Adam's apple as he swallowed.

But Holmes was not one to be bested without at least some challenge and he was soon grinning from ear to ear as he gracefully descended into his armchair across from me, his movements so deliberate that I could not help but momentarily cease my own attentions in order to focus fully on him.

"I propose we engage in a game of sorts," said he.

"Mmm, yes and that would be…?" I asked, once again renewing my descent over my heated flesh, though at a much slower pace. I was not an impressively intelligent man, but I could manage to multitask.

"It shall be a test of fortitude. In the next few minutes I will seek to bring myself to a similar state of arousal and from there we can each demonstrate a technique in pleasuring one's self to be mirrored by the other. We will continue to trade off until one of us reaches completion and thereby reveals their lesser ownership in the area of stamina. If you win, I will pay you double the fee for this activity."

Shortly after our first night together, Holmes had insisted on placing fixed prices on all manner of bedroom activities. I had been mortified, nay horrified at the idea, but as stated above, Holmes has too commanding a presence to be ignored and he convinced me it would only be fair to him, who unlike my other nightly lovers where payments were complementary transactions, he would need a working system in order to not become broke after a few months. Obviously, being brought off by hand was priced less than say, oral stimulation, therefore doubling the amount paid for the service would be quite desirable, especially when I was merely bringing myself to completion without having to even worry about my partner.

I nodded my acquiescence to his criteria. "And if you win?"

"I get to ravish you however I want without payment of any kind."

I grinned. "Are you sure you want to challenge me in this manner? My stamina can be easily vouched for by several reliable parties."

"You are mistaken in having the advantage of me. Remember, as I have had little to no partners in the past years, I am well acquainted in the singular arts of pleasure."

I laughed. I had to. He said it with absolutely no shame, his eyes alight only with the prospect of the challenge at hand.

"You start first."

I tossed him the small bottle of personal lubricant I usually keep in my breast pocket which I had left beside me at the start of my activities. He caught it, freed his already considerable erection (at least I would not have to worry that my early start would handicap my chances) and started immediately, spreading the lubricant with broad, strong strokes to coax his arousal to an equal state to my own. His face became flushed, the only time I ever saw a hint of color in his pale countenance, and he began rolling the breadth of his palm over the head of his cock while he cupped the base. He did it until his breathing became heavier and his eyes fluttered close for a second or two before he settled his gaze expectantly upon me. I followed his movements down to the speed and rotation.

We hadn't agreed on any sense of timing, but it came instinctually as I switched to creating a ring with my thumb and index finger and slid it up along my shaft. As it reached the tip I tightened the ring and twisted slightly. I let out a faint gasp at the sensation, which to my satisfaction was echoed by Holmes as he copied me. With my free hand, I loosened my cravat and collar with Holmes languidly following after. I could see the muscles tighten in his lean neck. How I wanted to press my lips against his pale throat, but I wanted to win, less for the prize than to simply prove to the man that he was not so wondrously knowledgeable at everything even though I highly suspected he was.

When I sensed my time was ending, I quickly added my left hand to follow right after my other hand completed its upward circuit so there was no lag time between when my fingers closed over the tip and beginning its second ascent. The benefit to this particular technique was that it invariably would milk the first few drops of preseminal fluid. I was dismayed to see that Holmes had yet to begin leaking, but I did not miss the fact his lips were pursed and that a single bead of sweat had made a steady descent along his temple.

He smiled thinly, probably sensing my frustration as he began his next maneuver. What he managed to do filled me with utter consternation as he crossed his wrists, left over right, so that his left hand came to message his scrotum while with his right hand created a sort of horizontal 'V' with his first two fingers, which he continued to move up and down his cock. His lips parted in rapturous satisfaction at whatever sensation his hands were causing.

He glanced over at me through the haze of pleasure, a faint sparkle of amusement turning his eyes from cloudy grey to bright silver.

"Well?" he prompted between breaths.

"You're as dexterous as you are inventive, I'll give you that."

I endeavored to accomplish the movement. I had to twist my body a little to accommodate it, but whereas I thought it would simply be awkward, I was immediately ensnared by the dual sensations. Holmes was not only messaging his sac, but stroking his fingers along the creases between his thighs, which I was forced to follow and my other fingers, although remaining fairly pliant as per Holmes' example, the feeling of them gliding over my now torturously rigid cock was affecting me more than I thought it could. My breathing was becoming irregular and I couldn't help the moan that escaped past my lips. I heard Holmes' own breathing quicken and I decided to switch tactics entirely.

Holmes was right. He had the advantage here, so instead, I played to my own strengths. I stopped focusing on generating the most pleasure in myself in the hopes it would incite the same reaction in Holmes and simply catered solely to him and him alone.

My next technique was to perform.

I dropped both my hands and simply cupped my arousal with one hand and stroked myself. I dug my other hand into the edge of the settee and tossed my head back, letting my sixteen day need show clearly on my face. I didn't close my eyes though because I was too good for that. I kept them focused right at Holmes so he would know exactly what I was thinking about, _who_ I was thinking about. When I thrust, I allowed the motion to roll up my entire body, so it seemed like I was straining to lean towards him while simultaneously allowing my trousers to shift from their loose position over my hips to around my thighs and then knees. My hand slid from the edge of the seat to my knee, then up along my thigh, my hand splaying over my abdomen, and finally coming to rest atop my left nipple. I squeezed it through my shirt and I moaned. I played up my reaction just a little bit, so that it would seem like I was closer than I really was, although not by too much since I was certainly on the fast road to getting there.

He was watching me just as he had that first night, eyes as wide as I had seen them in them amidst finding a major clue. The weight of his gaze was a physical presence, a physical sensation on my skin. It made me moan just a little louder and quite a bit more genuinely. What a lovely couple we make, I thought. Voyeur and exhibitionist. Just perfect.

I tipped my head back a little further and finally allowed my eyes to slide closed while I licked my lips and let my tongue slip towards but not past my bottom lip, giving the impression that I craved to have a mouth there to slide my tongue into.

The moment I did so, I barely registered the sound of curtains being pulled hastily to a close before Holmes' hands were grabbing at either side of my face and pulling me into a hard kiss.

"Fine," he panted. "I forfeit."

I went to remove my hand from my arousal, but Holmes stopped me and replaced my grip.

"Oh no," he whispered. "You still have to earn it."

I made a sound, certainly not like a whimper as I obeyed and continued to stroke myself as he stripped the rest of my clothes from my shoulders and dragged me bodily up with another kiss and then began to lead me towards his room, with me stepping out of my trousers along the way. My hand didn't still, not when he fumbled for the door and not when, unable to find or operate the door handle, he merely pushed me against it and kissed me again, this time deeper and with greater attention.

I came then, spilling over my now tired hand and staining the dark fabric of his loosely held up trousers. It was not exactly the right moment to do so, but I was unable to hold up against the stimulation of a partner, of Holmes' teeth scraping against my collarbone and lightly grazing over the scar tissue. Somewhere in between my haze of bliss, Holmes accomplished in getting the door open and lying me down across his bed widthwise so my hips half hanged over the side and stripping off all his clothes. He stood between my legs, bending them at the knees, so that my feet dangled in the air. I was glad that I had the foresight to begin preparing myself otherwise the amount of preparation Holmes gave me would not have nearly been enough, despite both our frenzy to complete the act.

He cradled one of my legs against his shoulder so that the inside of my thigh rested in the crux of his elbow and I think my other leg was held in place simply by the implicit ways of sex itself as he used his other hand to guide his slicked up cock to my entrance. He shifted forward to breach me, his whole weight leaning forward to give force to the thrust. My head snapped back, lifting my shoulders a good inch from the bed as my fists anchored themselves into Holmes' sheets.

"Are you alright?" he whispered breathlessly.

"Yes," I gasped. "_Please_."

And it was his turn to oblige me as he began to thrust into me, quick and shallow at first until he began grazing against my prostate at which point I signaled it with a barrage of moans and I turned my head a little into the sheets as if to stifle them. Having located my center of pleasure, Holmes began pulling back and thrusting fully into my body, pistoning his hips so that he was penetrating as deeply as he could manage. Holmes placed his hand along the newly exposed side of my neck, so that his thumb brushed along the strong line of my jaw, moving with my exhales, which followed something along the line of Holmes' heavy inhales. Oddly enough, it was when Holmes slowed, pushing one last time so that his whole length rested inside me that he finally came, making a low groaning sound between sweetly parted lips.

We breathed in tandem for several seconds until he gently brought my legs to rest on his thin shoulders as he carefully withdrew himself. He did it slow, messaging the muscles around my sphincter to aid his removal. I think he did it to make up for the lack of preparation. In all honesty I would be sore, but definitely not hurt.

"Thank you," I whispered.

He licked playfully at the inside of my knee before he detached himself and bent down to collect his handkerchief which he used to mop up his spendings from between my legs. I masked my natural urge to squirm in embarrassment by wriggling further up onto the bed so that my knees were pressed against the edge and I could rest more easily atop the sheets. In a graceless manner I would not expect from him, Holmes flopped down onto the bed beside me and within five or ten minutes fell into a light doze.

I wondered briefly how long he had gone without proper rest or nourishment. He could have at least spared the energy to tell me how good it was. I would be sure to berate him to eat and sleep whenever possible. Without thinking, I pressed a quick kiss to his naked shoulder before awkwardly folding the blanket to at least cover his naked arse and went to collect my clothes and draw a bath.

When I stepped out of the water closet there was a considerable amount of money waiting for me on one end of the dining table. Holmes' door was shut and I couldn't hear any movement from within.

* * *

I felt somewhat guilty over the rather gross expense, so I was compelled to invite him to lunch the next day. I was surprisingly pleased when he accepted. Although we knew each other in quite intimate a fashion, in truth we had only been sharing rooms together for a little over two months. The lunch wasn't awkward or boring at all, which bode well for a good friendship between us. Holmes amused me by painting perfect portraits of the lives of the patrons around us, sometimes to dismaying clarity and I amused him in turn with my own paltry attempts at the same exercise. Although in one respect, we did come out equal.

"That waiter is an invert." I nodded towards the one carrying a bottle of Merlot.

"I concur." He feigned astonishment. "Why Watson, however did you know? Were you merely hiding your formidable talents for scientific inference for the last twenty minutes?"

I gave him a stern look before directing my gaze towards the waiter who began walking in our direction. As he drew closer, I allowed my smile to stretch ever wider, my eyes never leaving his face. When he finally caught sight of me about three steps from our table, he stumbled as if on some nonexistent bump in the carpet had manifested, blushing like a mad thing as he delivered the wine to an adjacent table. I casually stretched my arms as he made his return trip back. Once he was safely ensconced in the kitchens, I produced the card he had surreptitiously pressed into my hand for Holmes to see.

"Because that gentleman wants to have sex with me. Elementary, my dear Holmes."

"A waiter hardly makes a gentleman," Holmes pointed out before leaning back in his chair and returning to his meal.

Hoping to buoy the growing friendship between us I also invited him to a concert featuring a visiting Russian orchestra and dinner a few days later. I wore one of my much finer set of tails with the silk waistcoat that was a deep blue to complement my eyes, an outfit I had previously used to lure my nightly lovers in. He thanked me by removing every piece of clothing without the use of his hands.

We had fallen into a more balanced schedule for coupling, most likely from the one or two trifling affairs Holmes had settled from the comfort of his armchair, which I thought was rather impressive and thus curbing his disparagement of them. We also attended to a minor case working alongside Scotland Yard, whereupon the man Holmes discovered to be the grave robber who operated as a unlicensed embalmer, had to be shot down when he attempted to ward us off with a nasty birdshot.

I of course, don't regret for a second that I contributed to making sure the man didn't get a chance to fire, but inevitably it triggered the nightly betrayal that took place afterward.

I dreamt I was standing amidst hundreds of screaming Ghazis, soaked from head to foot in blood, the blood of all those fellow soldiers I was unable to save. Driven by fear, I shot my revolver randomly into the writhing mass of enemy troops. Instead, it was my commanding officer who fell down dead. The Ghazis were closing in and panic in the form of bile was beginning to rise in my throat. I shot again and it was my orderly, Murray, whose body dropped to the scalding desert sands. And I screamed, and I screamed, and I screamed…

"Watson!"

I instinctively jerked away from whatever was holding me down. Holmes let me, seeing that the light of comprehension was only beginning to set in my eyes. I was shaking and my damp hair curled around my forehead where I was sweating, but it wasn't the terrible drenched and feverish sweat of India. It wasn't anything in fact, except for a ridiculous dream brought on by my ridiculous mind. My shoulder throbbed and my leg ached, but I ignored them.

"Are you alright, Doctor?" Holmes asked, looking for all the world like he did when confronted with any other mildly interesting puzzle.

I passed my shaking hand over my face. "No," I said finally with some vehemence that was the result of frustration at myself for my reaction and at my companion for whose keen intellect rendered my excuses as useless. I wanted to be away from scrutiny as quickly as I was able. "It doesn't matter. You can't help me."

His expression flickered to something I could not identify before it was lost in his perfectly controlled countenance. "Is that what you tell your other partners when this occurs?"

I blinked at him in the darkness. "I have never yet had the opportunity to do so."

With that statement, I conveyed the truth of my improvised profession. Though I treated my lovers well and they me, I had never stayed with them for more than a few hours after sex and as Holmes had discovered earlier, I never bore a repeat performance. If I did sleep, it would be one of exhaustion, therefore not conducive to dreams. No one had ever been with me long enough, had ever been close enough to observe what Holmes had just witnessed. That was the truth.

"Why did you…?" I trailed off. Either Holmes had come because I was making too much noise to be politely ignored or Holmes had come up with the intention of having sex with me. Either answer would be rather awkward to explain.

Instead Holmes gave me a small smile. "It doesn't matter," he repeated. After a moment of consideration he sat down on the bed beside me, the small of his back resting gently against my leg. He tipped his head to one side, surveying me with almost innocent curiosity. "How did you receive your wounds, truly? Besides the fact they coincided at nearly the same time and was caused by the soft nosed bullets delivered by the Jezail rifles commonly used in the east, of course."

I smiled softly into my pillow as I turned over on my side, knees bending slightly to curl around his seated position on the bed. "I was a soldier. We were at war. You need very little else to get shot at."

"I see," he said quietly.

And for a civilian, I think he truly did see.

"Shall I stay here for the night?" he asked.

I shifted uncomfortably. "I really rather—"

Despite my protests, he pulled back the sheets and slid towards me anyways, close enough that I could feel the perfectly flaccid state of his member pressed against my hip. I rolled over so that we were pressed back to front, his fingers moving to brush against my upper arm.

"You do know you have the capability of saying no to me, do you not?" he said reassuringly.

"And if I told you to get out of the bed this instant?" I queried.

"Rather late for that, Doctor. I'm already quite comfortably settled."

"Fair enough," I murmured, sleep once again tugging at my conscience. I felt his arm naturally move to encircle my waist and for some reason I was absolutely confident I would not dream again that night.

The first time we woke up together in the same bed, Holmes had demanded nothing from me, had gained nothing in return for his generous actions. In fact, when I descended from my room to join him for breakfast he had his back turned toward me and was in the process of sorting out a few shillings from a handful of coins. I stopped him at once, standing directly in front of him, and looking him squarely in the eyes.

"No," I enunciated stoutly, closing his hand around the coins.

He flashed me something between a smirk and a smile as he pocketed his coins and I gave him a kiss, which was more a nipping rebuke than an actual kiss and went to sit at the table in order to tuck into the breakfast laid out on the table.

I don't know why, but I felt the unmistakable twinge of disappointment somewhere deep in my chest.

Or I did know and I was frankly terrified of it.

If I was falling in love with Sherlock Holmes, I don't know what I'd do.

Actually, I did know, but I was absolutely _not_ in love with Holmes.

I was not, I assured myself as I watched as he flicked through the morning paper, stolidly ignoring the food set out before him. I was not, I repeated to myself as I nagged him over it.

I was not because invariably if I kept repeating it with enough frequency, it could not be true.

I was not. I was not. I was not. It became as constant as my heartbeat and I tried to ignore that despite my inner monologue, my heart beat to a rather different three syllable rhythm.


End file.
